[Scrappy and I are looking at my phone and cooing over those ornaments I found on Etsy, when a bearish customer wanders in, towers over us, and points at a pup hood.]
Customer: “How much is that there dog mask?”
Me: “It’s $69.99.”
Customer: “I want my ex to buy it for me for Christmas. Can you write down the price, so I don’t forget?”
Customer: “I’m gonna wear it to the homeless shelter I work at.”
Scrappy: “But… but why?”
Customer: [shrug] “Just cuz.”
Scrappy was deeply concerned with how the homeless might react to a gargantuan, neoprene werewolf tearing through their safe space, and I can sympathize with that. On the other hand, our worry is probably unwarranted, since I suspect dude won’t be working there much longer.
Me: “Okay, but first I need you to put your mask on.”
Customer: “It’s in my pocket.”
Me: “And I need it on your face.”
Customer: “WELL, I DON’T WANT IT ON MY FACE.”
He immediately showed himself out, which saved me the effort of banning him, but honestly, at this stage in the game, I do not understand why people still get uppity about masks. Personally, I plan on wearing them long after the various vaccines become available, for three basic reasons:
1. They’re an inexpensive way to satisfy that normally irresistible compulsion I have to buy and hoard T-shirts.
2. I did not survive alcoholism, nor any number of questionable life choices, just to be taken out by some random queen breathing on me.
[Ed. note: I’m usually pretty non-negotiable about people taking pictures in the store, because a) I want to protect the privacy of the other shoppers, and b) I’m not running a damn side show, Sparky.]
Customer: “See, I’ve got this man — married, Salvadorian — and I bought him a cock ring and gave him Viagra, and he was hooked. So I’m his Sex Goddess, right?”
Customer: “But now his wife wants to know where he’s learning all these tricks.”
Last night I dreamt that you were going to the Witch Olympics. I told you it was an honor just to be chosen for the team, and you said, “I have to get the gold in incense. That’s the only one that counts.”
Which? Totally sounds like something I would say in real life. I love it when other people’s subconscious minds clock me.
Alas, the Witch Olympics do not exist in the waking world, but my friend Mortellus did recently win a Witchie Award for Outstanding New Blog of the Year, and that is legitimately the next best thing. Mortellus also blends their own killer incense, so even if I didn’t place, at least first prize would still go home with the Gardnerian contingent.
Plus I’d definitely remain the favorite to take Extemporaneous Candle Anointing and Mid-Ritual Crisis Management, which is where all the money is anyhow. As any true champion can tell you, the real Olympic medals are the endorsement deals we make along the way.
[Two customers are standing in front of a display, contemplating the attached “Everything Orange Must Go” sign.]
Customer 1: “What’s wrong with orange?”
Me: “We’re celebrating the election.”
Customer 1: “I don’t get it.”
Me: “The very orange person currently holding office is no longer going to be president. To mark the occasion, we’ve put discounts on all of our orange merchandise.”
Customer 2: “He means Trump.”
Customer 1: “YES, I UNDERSTAND THE VERY BAD JOKE.”
And then he stormed out, muttering, “Y’all are gonna be upset [grumble grumble] second term [grumble grumble] voter fraud [grumble grumble] stop the steal [grumble grumble]…” with Customer 2 trailing meekly behind him.
Humor is always subjective, of course, but I submit that it if it sends a gay Republican into a fit of fuming rage, it is in fact a very good joke. And I, for one, am very proud of myself for coming up with it.